“Well, Yin was a dissident writer. It is understandable that Internal Security would be interested in the case. They are not responsible to us, as we know.”

“But if it was such a politically sensitive case, they should have shared information with us.”

“If they had found something of substance, I believe they would have informed you,” Li said. “Have you discovered anything that might interest Internal Security?”

“No,” Chen said. Of course, he would have denied it even if he had found something. “That’s why I asked you the question.”

“The ministry in Beijing has called us, too. Minister Huang has a high opinion of you, you know. Since you have given a lot of thought to the case, what about your taking it over?”

“No, Party Secretary Li. My mother is in the hospital. I’ve just gotten a phone call about it.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Is there anything the bureau can do for you? You are still on your vacation. If necessary, you can take a few more days. Or we can send someone to the hospital to help. Have you any particular request?”

“No, not at the moment. But thank you very much. And I will assist Detective Yu in whatever way I possibly can. I give you my word, Party Secretary Li.”

For a while after this conversation, Chen found it hard to concentrate on the translation, but he finally managed. Not too long afterward, however, White Cloud called. Everything at the hospital had been taken care of, and his mother was not in any real danger. The doctor explained that they wanted to admit her to the hospital for the test because of her age. That seemed reassuring. So Chen went on revising the translation.

Before lunch time, he dialed Yu’s home number, but it was Peiqin who answered the phone. It was just as well; he had questions for her too. After their last talk, he had obtained a copy of Death of a Chinese Professor, and tried to read as much as possible in the little time available. Peiqin had been right: the novel was uneven, with striking contrasts in style and content, so much so that it was difficult not to notice them.

“I think you are right,” he said. “Yin may have plagiarized. Her source was probably not newspapers or bestsellers. Some parts of the novel are of high literary quality.”

Peiqin said, “Some parts are far better written than others. But I cannot see the connection between her novel and the murder.”

“Neither can I. If somebody-either the writer of the work she copied, or a reader-had discovered this, he could have contacted her or the media. In a similar case, I remember, the plaintiff sued for monetary compensation. But nothing could have been gained from killing her,” Chen said. “Have you discovered anything else, Peiqin?”

“Nothing new,” she said, “except for one small point. As Yu must have told you, I have read a number of translations-I was a bookworm in my high school years. In a close reading, books translated into Chinese often read quite differently from those originally written in Chinese. Linguistically, I mean.”

“That’s a very interesting point. Can you try to be a bit more specific, Peiqin?”

“There are certain ways of putting a phrase or a sentence in one language that are changed in another. Sometimes even a word can be different. For instance, Chinese writers seldom if ever use the pronoun ‘it,’ and experienced translators like Yang are aware of this. But not so with third- or fourth-rate translators. Exotic expressions keep popping up in their texts. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with the meaning, but Chinese sentences should not read that way.”

“You are right. Some paragraphs do not read smoothly; that’s my impression too. But I have not done as close a reading as you.”

“There’s another example. Ten years ago, the word ‘privacy’ hardly existed in Chinese. If used at all, it was with a negative connotation-indecent or evil, incapable of being open and above-board. But in Death of a Chinese Professor, Yin used the word in a positive sense, like some fashionable young people use it today.”

“Your English is really good, Peiqin!” he said. “Even today, some people would still use the word cautiously, because of its lingering negative connotation.”

“No, don’t laugh at me, Chief Inspector Chen. I have to help Qinqin with his English homework, and he asked me how to translate ‘privacy’ into Chinese just a couple of weeks ago.”

“You are perceptive, Peiqin. I have done translations, but I have paid little attention to such linguistic complexities.”

“Oh, forgive me. This is really like an apprentice giving a lesson to Master Ban. I know you have done a lot of translations. But some paragraphs in the Death of a Chinese Professor read like a literal translation.”

“So you are suggesting that Yin might have plagiarized an English text and translated it herself?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

It was possible. A number of books about the Cultural Revolution had been written in English. As a college English teacher, Yin could have read some of them. But, then, Death of a Chinese Professor had subsequently been translated into English too. Yin would surely have considered the possibility of discovery.

Perhaps Peiqin was like him, too focused on what she could do to help in the investigation. The only help she could provide was through her reading; as a result, she was susceptible to exaggerating some possibilities. Still, she did all this for her husband, who had been left to deal with a difficult case all by himself.

Then Chen spoke on the spur of the moment. “Yu told me about your family breakfast at Old Half Place this morning. That’s great. He deserves a break.”

“Yes, he does. He’s been under a lot of pressure of late. Due to a lot of things.”

“I understand. Detective Yu and I are in the same boat. I depend on him, and of course I will do whatever I can for him. He is a great cop. I consider myself fortunate to be his partner.”

“Thank you. It’s kind of you to say so, Chief Inspector Chen.”

Afterward, he regretted having made such patronizing statements, which might have sounded like the empty compliments Party Secretary Li usually paid. It was perhaps little wonder that he was in line to become Party Secretary Chen. What had he really meant, he wondered. And what would Peiqin think?

He brewed himself another pot of coffee before he resumed reading his own translation.

He put the roast beef and steamed buns into the microwave. It was a clever combination. The roast beef was prepared in a Western way, for in traditional Chinese cuisine there was only soy-sauce-stewed beef. The mixing of the opposites, like yin and yang-he stopped himself with the first bite. The digital timer on the microwave read 3:00 in green lights and there was a sharp beep. There was some strange correspondence between this sound and his new thought.

Was it possible that those parts Yin had plagiarized came from an unpublished manuscript, and the original author was in no position to complain?

He had not really considered this possibility because he was aware that Yin had been a nobody until the publication of Death of a Chinese Professor. No one would have given her a manuscript to read-except Yang. But the missing English manuscript that Zhuang had mentioned might have been Yang’s version of a Chinese Doctor Zhivago.

Of course, Yin would never have told anyone if Yang had left the manuscript to her, for it would have brought her no end of trouble. If the Party authorities had gotten wind of it, they would have demanded the manuscript. They would never have left anything potentially damaging to the glorious image of socialist China in such hands. Especially a manuscript written in English, meant for the market abroad. It might also have exposed her to unpleasantness if word got out about the money she might receive in the event of its publication. That, he could understand from personal experience. So far he had hardly talked to anybody about his current translation project-except to Yu. But even to Yu he had not mentioned the exact amount he was being paid. What would others have thought?